


what you deserve

by carolion



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shaw was asked if he gave Kane a kiss there: "No, I was just screaming in his ear. He probably deserved a kiss, but I didn't give him one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	what you deserve

**Author's Note:**

> Post Game 5 of the WCF 2013. Based none too subtly on a quote Andrew Shaw apparently gave the media. This has a lazy, introspective quality and, as always, is full of feelings. I really thought I'd put out something plotty by now guys, but nope. Here you go. Unbeta'd but I did read through it several times. Please point out any glaring mistakes!

Jonny is impatient through the post game interviews, vibrating with excitement and relief. He keeps replaying those last few minutes of the game in his mind, remembering the way he could see the play unfold in front of him even before Bicks got to the puck, how as soon as he chipped it up towards him he knew that Patrick would be there, streaking up the ice on his right side. Jonny didn't even have to look, just felt himself slice the pass towards Patrick and watched the puck slam into the back of the net past Quick who, even despite his extraordinary effort, couldn't stop a shot that perfect. 

It felt like they'd done this a million times before. It felt brand new, like a fresh memory. It felt like an impression of the future, a hundred passes more, a hundred more goals with Patrick. 

Jonny is willing to admit he's an arrogant jackass sometimes, but fuck, he just assisted on the game winning goal of the Western Conference Finals, with _Patrick_. He deserves this. He can't quite explain the bolt of irritation he feels when Shawzy is the first to get to Patrick, first to wrap his arms around him and scream into his ear, except for how that should have been Jonny, Jonny celebrating with Patrick first, them together, because that's how it always is and always will be. It's only a little flash of irritation though in a sea of joy, joy, joy and pride, because they did it, _finally_ , after two years of bitter failure and shitty luck, they're back in the Final. It's exactly where he feels like he belongs.

It isn't until he sees the picture the next morning, of Patrick on his knees (god he's been doing a lot of his cellies on his knees lately), arms outstretched like some kind of come-again Messiah and Shawzy's arms wrapped around him and face smashed up against Patrick's cheeks, that he rolls his eyes. He pulls out his cellphone and briefly debates whether or not to text Patrick something dumb like "nice pose, Rose" but decides against it. Instead, he just taps out "dinner 2night." Not a request.

His phone vibrates a few minutes later.

"anything but sushi"

Jonny can't help it. He laughs.

He picks Patrick up and takes him to one of his favorite steak houses, steadfastedly ignoring the scoffing noises Patrick is making from the passenger seat. 

"What?" He asks levelly, when Patrick gives him a long look. His voice isn't at all petulant. 

"You know, there's all kinds of food in this city that isn't steak or sushi. Indian, Italian, sandwich shops, Asian-fusion, burger joints, Greek, Thai..."

"Shut up," Jonny says, unbuckling and getting out of the car. "Like you don't like this place."

Patrick grins, getting out and shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he joins Jonny on the walk towards the restaurant. 

"I'm just saying, you are so predictable." 

Jonny slants a glance at Patrick's profile then, curious and calculating, but all he can see is the easy slouch of Patrick's shoulders, and the relaxed smile on his face, no hidden agenda there. It's almost enough to distract him from the distinct cut of Patrick's hideous mullet, but not quite. 

Dinner is fine. The food is good, and they come here often enough that the waitstaff is respectful and polite, though their waitress gives them both a fist bump and a congratulations, and privately admits to them that she has money on them against the Bruins, so if they could win it would really help her out. Jonny and Patrick laugh and tell her they'll do their best. Jonny has already decided to leave a large tip - just in case. 

They don't talk about anything in particular, but they don't avoid any topics either. Patrick complains about the amount of messages he keeps getting from friends and family - and even now, his phone seems to be constantly buzzing where he's placed it, face down on the table - both excited congratulations and requests for tickets, and how he's just too tired to really deal with them all.

"All your douchey Buffalo friends waking up now that you're the big hero, eh?" Jonny says, taking a long drink of water. 

Patrick makes a face. 

"Whatever, you're just jealous because you're in a goal scoring drought and I scored _three_ in one night."

"Oh I'm sorry, who assisted on your over time winner? That's right, me." 

"Could have been anyone," Patrick says casually, "just a body on the ice to throw me the puck."

When Jonny looks up at him though, Patrick is smiling and his eyes are glittering from behind his wine glass. He knows that Patrick, despite what he might tell the media, never undervalues him. Patrick knows exactly what Jonny is worth, to the team and to him whether or not he's scoring goals.

"You keep telling yourself that," Jonny grumbles, and devotes himself to enjoying his steak. 

He drives Patrick home after they settle the check (sizable tip included, with a little note that says "for believing in us" for their waitress), and Jonny follows him up to his apartment without being asked. It's routine. 

The paper with that ridiculous picture of Shaw and Patrick is sitting on Patrick's kitchen counter, and Jonny snorts.

"Nice," he says sarcastically, nodding to the picture. "You guys practice that one in your free time or what?"

Patrick laughs, tossing Jonny a juice from the refrigerator. Jonny looks at it - strawberry mango, typical. 

"Naw, Shawzer just muscled his way into the limelight, like always. Little shit." He sounds so fucking fond, Jonny can't stand it. 

"Someone asked him if he gave you a kiss," he says, casual. "He said he didn't, but that you probably deserved one." 

He flicks his eyes to watch Patrick, to look at the way he's sprawled against his counter, his elbow propping him up on the dark granite. It's bright in the kitchen with the overhead lights on, but Patrick's eyes look hooded and quiet, and he cocks his head, his tongue swiping against his lips until they look wet and shining.

"Well," he sighs, meeting Jonny's gaze, "what do you think?"

Jonny's never met anyone quite like Patrick. He's played with dozens of different hockey players, all of them talented, most of them pretty cool or funny or interesting. Most of them were good guys, guys he liked playing with and hanging out with, and would do both again if he had the chance. But he's never met anyone like Patrick, someone as bright and burning and reckless, so talented it seems to spill out of him onto the ice and makes everyone around him better. He's never met a guy so arrogant and confidant, and yet so often the first to punish his own mistakes, to push himself harder and demand more from himself when he's already performing the impossible. Patrick is the most obnoxious person he's ever known, but Jonny's spent more time with him than with almost any other person in his _life_ , and a lot of that was by choice. 

He hates evaluating the way he feels about Patrick. It's always this mixed up bag of fondness and irritation, protectiveness and desperation, and a fierce, fierce pride. All he knows is that he's drawn to him, and always will be. It's not just because of hockey, though maybe it started out that way, it's because of all the ways they know each other now, how they've grown and knotted into each others lives. How all their greatest memories involve the other, somehow. It's a heavy weight that presses into him, the realization that he will never be rid of Patrick, never get him out from under his skin. 

Maybe that's why he takes the three or four steps to bring him in front of Patrick, staring at him quietly. He lifts his hand to brush his curled fingers against the beard growing along Patrick's jawline, stroking it thoughtfully, before slotting his hand beneath it, cupping his face. 

Patrick stares at him, eyes bright but not wide or confused. 

"What are you doing?" He asks. His voice is as soft as his beard. Jonny doesn't know why he's surprised at either of those revelations.

"Giving you what you deserve," Jonny answers, and ducks his head to kiss him. 

Patrick reaches towards him, and their mouths meet easily. He had expected more shock or resistance, but Patrick's lips give easily to him, as soft and plush as they always look. Jonny can feel the desperate urge to push himself on Patrick rising like a tide inside of him, ready to break, but he holds it back and holds himself back, keeping the kiss as gentle and easy as he can. This is a reward, he reminds himself, this isn't a punishment. Whatever panic he feels, he can ignore it for now. Never mind the fact that they've never done this sober, or that when they did do it before, they never spoke about it afterwards, and that Jonny and Patrick had both gone on sprees of women and booze post-incidents, like they were trying to erase the gayness from their minds. 

For some reason, it's easy tonight. Patrick tastes tangy, like the juice he'd been sucking down not five minutes ago, and his tongue isn't as demanding as Jonny vaguely remembers it being. He finds Patrick's hip with his left hand and holds on tightly, thumb stroking along the skin he can find under his hoodie, allowing himself that much, feeling himself get hot, knowing he'll go home and think about this, touch himself and get off to this memory. He'll try hard not to be ashamed, but the shame and guilt will still come to haunt him, telling him he's a coward and a liar and a fake. 

Jonny wonders how long he can stretch this out, how long Patrick will play along with Jonny's game, how long he'll allow the kiss to go on. He can't be sure, so he pours himself into it, letting Patrick grab at his shoulders and squeeze, letting Patrick push at his mouth and breathe hot against his cheek before turning back for more. 

It's weird, Jonny thinks, how not weird it is to be making out with Patrick in Patrick's kitchen. It's not dark or shady, and neither of them smell like tequila, but it feels good, better than the times before. He lets his right hand slide down against Patrick's neck until his thumb is pressing gently at the hollow of his throat, underneath his Adam's apple and Patrick groans. He can feel the vibration in his fingers. 

"Fuck," he mumbles. His voice doesn't crack, but it's close. "Patrick, I--"

"Shut up Jonny," Patrick says fiercely, nipping at his lip, at Jonny's _scar_ and Jonny feels himself fall apart. "Just shut the fuck up."

The kiss isn't gentle any more. He lets the dam break, allows Patrick to feel everything he's been holding back this whole time - not just tonight but for a long time, years Jonny thinks hysterically, for as long as he's known him. 

He plasters himself up against Patrick and lets him feel exactly how much he wants this, his thighs spread to bracket Patrick's body in against the counter. Suddenly he's rubbing up against Patrick's thigh, breath hitching every time his cock gets that slide of friction and Jonny thinks he could come like this, kissing Patrick so hard their lips might bruise, one hand dipping into the back of Patrick's jean, fingertips grazing the top of his ass, grinding hard on his thighs like an animal. 

"Jonny, I don't really want to get jerked off against a counter in the kitchen," Patrick says against his mouth, lips wet and slick.

Jonny sucks in a deep breath, surprised. He hadn't thought-- he'd wanted, but--

"C'mon," Patrick cajoles, pleading. He's got his hand tight around Jonny's wrist. "C'mon." 

He stumbles back a few steps and it's almost like breaking out of a trance, but Patrick's got him by the wrist and is reeling him back, won't let him get too far away. He drags him back towards Patrick's bedroom without looking, and Jonny can do nothing but follow, feeling his heart beat quicken and thrum in his chest, a steady beat of _are we doing this? I think we're doing this oh god I want him I want him I want him_. 

Patrick turns on him with glowing eyes once they're in his bedroom, his hand still tight on Jonny's wrist. Jonny flexes it, and shivers when Patrick bites his bottom lip. 

"C'mon," Patrick repeats again, squeezing once before finally dropping Jonny's wrist, like he's trusting Jonny not to run off. He pulls his hoodie off, and his t-shirt with it, and turns his back on Jonny to undo his pants. 

It's one of the sweeter, oddly modest things that Jonny has seen him do, and instead of taking the time to undress himself, Jonny just watches the flex of his shoulders, and the way his pants drop with a clunk to the ground, belt still in it's loops. It isn't until Patrick turns to look at him, sighing impatiently, that Jonny realizes he should have been doing something. 

"Can't do anything," Patrick says, coming forward to shove his hands underneath Jonny's shirt and push it up to his armpits, prompting Jonny to lift his arms up and over his head so Patrick could pull the shirt all the way off.

Jonny's heart leaps to his throat at the intimacy, and he instinctively grabs for Patrick's waist, big hands sliding up the smooth, pale expanse of his rib cage. Jonny has seen Patrick naked more times than he can count, and knows his body inside and out. He knows what Patrick looks like when he's ten pounds overweight (with fat) or ten pounds underweight (with not nearly enough muscle.) He can tell with a glance whether or not Patrick's wrist is bothering him, or if his back is tight, or if he has a cramped calf. He knows Patrick's body with the devoted intensity of any good captain who worries about his team, but he doesn't know Patrick's body like this. He doesn't know how to touch him, how to draw pleasure from him, or make him sing with joy. It's all new, unexplored territory, and while Jonny is usually up for a challenge, he feels unusually terrified, like if he fucks up this one chance he'll never get a second shot. He can only hope they read each other as well here as they do on the ice. 

He drops his head to kiss gently at Patrick's shoulder, brushing his lips gently over his skin, just to feel Patrick sigh under his finger tips, the way his ribs expand and contract. 

"Is this okay?" He asks, turning his face to Patrick's neck. His eyelashes are tangling with Patrick's beard. Jonny doesn't think he's ever been this close to another human being before. 

Patrick laughs breathily, his hands fumbling as they paw at Jonny's pants. 

"Jonny, I'm trying to get my hand on your dick, and you're asking me if it's okay to kiss me? I-- I gotta tell you, you can do whatever you want to me. I'm serious."

He gets Jonny's pants off, and yanks him to the bed until their laying side by side. 

"Now touch me," Patrick demands, and puts Jonny's hand on his cock, hard inside his boxer-briefs. 

Jonny groans and palms his length through the fabric, dragging the knuckle of his thumb up from base to tip, just to feel the warmth of it, the heat soaking through to his skin. 

"Anything you want Patrick, god," he mumbles, and drags the elastic band of Patrick's underwear down past his cock and balls, pulling it down over his ass as well so it sits tight along his upper thighs. 

Patrick grabs his hand and brings it up to his mouth, licking his palm in long swipes, coating his hand with spit to ease the way. He takes the time to suck a few of Jonny's fingers into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard like a promise of something in the future, but Jonny is already too turned on to even think about it, can only gasp and whimper and pull his fingers away so he can shove his hand and wrap it around Patrick's erection.

Fuck, he's already so hard. Patrick's making weird noises, little vowel sounds that spill from his lips like he can't help it, and his are jerking hard into every pull that Jonny takes. He's being sloppy and messy he knows, but there doesn't seem to be room for finesse, or maybe they just both wore out all their patience being slow in the kitchen, making out for long minutes before this. Patrick doesn't seem to mind. 

"Yes, yes, god Jonny -- wanted this, fuck, harder, more, _more_ ," he breathes out, and Jonny's head is a swirl of thoughts. He wants to bitch at Patrick that he's doing his best, but he also wants Patrick to have everything, all of it, so he reaches around and grabs Patrick's ass to drag him closer, fingers dimpling in his ass as he grips hard, and buries his face in Patrick's neck. 

He pushes his own cock into the slot of Patrick's hip and ruts hard, seeing stars at the perfect friction and heat it brings him, wanting to yell at Patrick about how perfect this is, how good, how fucking much he loves him. He just jerks him faster, panting against his skin and sucking bruises into his collarbone. 

"Please," Patrick says, voice shaking. His body is tense and hot. It feels like a live wire.

"Come on Patrick," he says, his voice soft and deadly. He wants him to. He wants to make Patrick come with his hands and his voice and their bodies pressed together, like there's no end to one of them, or beginning of the other. 

Shuddering, Patrick does.

His come is wet and slick, and spills over Jonny's fist onto both their stomachs. It drips down to their hips where Jonny is shoving his cock, and the wet, sticky feel makes him groan in surprise, shivering. It eases the way, slicker and more slippery now, and he lets go of Patrick's spent cock to grab his own, jerking as rough and fast as he ever has.

"You motherfucker," Patrick pants, recovering and grabs Jonny's face in both his hands, kissing him with teeth, brutal and fierce and adoring, urging him on by rocking his hips.

Jonny whines. He can't last, not like this, not with his hand coated in Patrick's come, wrapped around his aching cock, fucking up against Patrick's sweat-slick skin and Patrick tongue-fucking his way into his mouth. 

Whatever noise he makes when he comes is swallowed up between the two of them, lips and teeth and tongue. 

They don't stop kissing for a while, though Patrick's hands gentle on the sides of his face, more stroking than clutching, and both of regain their normal breathing patterns eventually. 

Finally, Patrick pulls back. Jonny has a hand cradling the side of his head, and keeps brushing his fingers above his ear, where he can feel the stupid lines shaved into his hair. It's oddly soothing, to count the lines with his thumb.

"You really think I'm worth all that?" Patrick finally says. His eyes look so, so blue. 

Jonny can only shrug. His heart feels like it's too big for his body, like it's going to burst out of his chest in a gruesome, science fiction type of way. He wants to grab Patrick and never let him go.

"It's what you deserve," he says, flushing. 

Patrick's smile is bright enough to light up the room.


End file.
